Forbidden Chaos
by DarknessMatters
Summary: What if Harry says no to Hagrid in the hut? Follow his adventures and he's forced into a world he has nothing to do with, and becomes greater than anybody expected.
1. Running Away

Chapter 1- Running Away

By DarknessMatters

**1st warning- This story has been partially written before, a few years ago, under a different profile. However, I didn't like the way it was going, so I deleted the story, and I'm starting fresh with the same general summary. Which is...**

** FULL SUMMARY- Harry's had a past that was more unpleasant than canon (a lot more unpleasant, which we will discover as the story moves on) and as a result, he's more suspicious, more smart, and a bit more vulnerable than the everyday Harry we all know and are familiar with. So when Hagrid visits him in the hut to invite him into an exciting new world, Harry says no. So he's forced (with the best intentions, of course!). He tries running away, he makes friends with the those no one expects, and he becomes more than anybody ever expected, including himself.**

**2nd warning- There are no pairing for a long time. He's eleven people, get a handle on your hormones.**

**3rd warning- The Harry in this story has a rather violent past, which results in who he is, and how he acts. Descriptions of his past will come in flashbacks because, as everyone with that sort of past knows, it just doesn't go away. **

**4th warning- I'm not exactly sure what genre this is, so i'm just going with horror, and general. Let me know if I should fix it.**

**5th warning- MAY be super power Harry, although a bit more realistic. But that's iffy, and it really depends on how the story goes. **

**(a/n)- Another one, I know... I love reviews, as all authors do. It spurs me on, and keeps my imagination going.**

**Also, if anyone has a few ideas they would love to see in the story, my email can be found on my profile page. Shoot me an email, and I'll see if I like it or not. **

The darkness was silently, but quickly, creeping in, breaking all obstacles in front of it, and all attempts to stop it, and made itself at home in every nook and cranny it could reach. It was the sort of darkness where you could hold your hand out in front of your face and wave it like a madman, but see nothing but that inky blackness. It was thicker than the darkness of a night without a moon, thicker than the darkness of his cupboard, and it existed only in his mind.

He stood in front of the sink, scrubbing at his arms viciously with fingernails and soap until they were bleeding, and watched as his own blood flowed down his arms in tiny streams. The garbage disposal was on, and inside the pristine white sink that wasn't so pristine anymore, sat a large hunk of meat surrounded by puddles of water streaked with red. He found himself incapable of thinking properly with the inky blackness in his mind, so he simply watched as his arms reached out mechanically and shoved the hunk of meat down the disposal. There was a nasty crunching sound, and after a minute or two, it was gone.

"No dinner for you, Uncle Vernon," he heard himself say. A giggle forced it's way out of his throat.

He had finally snapped. He was completely insane. He knew it as a fact, and it made him want to cry. He had once heard someone say that if you were capable of admitting you were insane, you probably weren't. At the time, he sincerely doubted it. Now, he knew with all of his heart that it was utter bullshit.

He was finally insane, and it was all his uncles fault.

His arms were mostly covered in his blood now, and he leaned forward and gently wiped it away under the lukewarm water coming from the tap, already regretting what he had done to himself. Underneath all the red he could see fresh gouges in his skin, and mottled bruising up and down his arm. On his left, there was a bruise darker than the rest in the shape of a handprint, and his stomach shriveled at the sight of it. He had gotten it from jerking awake and slamming his hand loudly into the door of his cupboard. It had been his luck that his uncle had been the only one home, and downstairs in the kitchen at the time instead of watching the telly.

It was Sunday. His aunt was out grocery shopping, and his cousin was at a friends house. He had forgotten.

The blackness was settling in, until he could barely feel it. But just because he could barely feel it, didn't mean he didn't know it was there. It was _there. _He _knew_ it.

He looked back down into the sink and wondered what his uncle would do when he discovered what he had done with his dinner, and as soon as he thought that, he choked and took a step backwards, not willing to believe that the thought came out of his own mind. He really was insane.

When he had taken a step backwards, he tripped on the hem of his jeans, which were twice the size of him, and had already developed holes in the knees. He grabbed at his waist and tugged them up an inch, and froze when he realized that his clothing was covered in blood as well. His head throbbed. He hadn't known that he was this messy. He turned around and faced the kitchen. There was a rather large mess in front of him, and he looked away, forcing himself to ignore it. His aunt would be devastated, but he couldn't bring himself to care. If she was so concerned with having a clean kitchen, then _she _could clean it.

He left the kitchen and walked down the hallway to his cupboard so he could grab another shirt to put on. Maybe another pair of pants as well, he thought to himself. When he was changing, right out there in the hallway, because it was hard to change in the cupboard, he looked painfully at the bruising covering his stomach and legs. His left wrist was killing him, and he wondered if maybe it was broken. He knew that now more than ever was the time to leave. He should have left long before this.

Before he left the cupboard, he spotted a bit of white sticking out from underneath his cot and glared at it. It was the letter he still hadn't read. After his aunt and uncle destroyed the hundreds finding their way into the house, he had found one hiding under the couch, and hid it here. On a whim, he picked up the letter and shoved it into his pocket.

On the way out the door, he stopped by the mirror to check if his appearance was acceptable enough to go outside, as was habit. As usual, it wasn't. His thick black hair had grown longer than ever, falling almost to his shoulders, but at least it covered the scar on forehead. He was looking forward to growing a beard, the cover the long scar on his face as well.

It started at his mouth and curved up, turning half his face into a nasty excuse for a smile, and he thought without humor that if he had a scar like that on the other half of his face, he could paint it and pretend he was Joker from Batman, and he wouldn't have to grow a beard at all.

After that particular incident, his uncle had been very careful to not mark his face to avoid suspicion, and the boy supposed he was rather grateful.

But besides that, his face was clear, and nobody would ask unwelcome questions (because people rarely asked about his scar for fear of appearing rude). He walked out the door, leaving it wide open, hoping like hell the bugs that flew in would irritate his aunt.

It seemed as if the boy had been walking for hours. It was a dark night, and he coudn't see anything but the individual little worlds of chaos created underneath the eerie yellow glow of the street lamps. Worlds filled with rain so heavy it was nearly impossible to see through. Only the panicked shrieking of the wind as it was whipped violently through the air by some unseen force let me know that the little worlds I saw were, in fact, part of something bigger.

His feet seemed to be moving on their own accord, and the wet gnashing sound of his ducktaped sneakers against the loose gravel on the side of the road was making him want to throw up. He thought about his effort to wash the blood off his skin and get it out of his clothing and laughed. It was all in vain, apparently.

He kept on walking, without a clue as to where he was going. He was in a neighborhood he didn't know, and while he didn't regret leaving yet, he regretted the fact that he wasn't prepared. He had no money, no spare set of clothes, no food, and no destination.

He vaguely wondered why he wasn't cold. His feet weren't sore, and he didn't even feel wet. He was calm, and under control. He didn't like that. He wanted to feel like screaming wildly in panic for reasons unknown, just to distract himself. He wanted to feel like letting his thoughts spin out of control, creating a whirlwind of color in his head, but he didn't. He couldn't. He just kept on walking, knowing there was a blackness in his mind, and knowing that he should be feeling more than he is.

A strange glowing light appeared before him, but he couldn't tell what it was through the rain. He paused mid step in the gutter and thought about heading towards it. If the light was still on, it was probably a store that was still open, and he could maybe steal something to eat. Then again, since it was dark and storming, there was bound to be nobody else there and he's get caught for sure. Besides, he really didn't like the idea of stealing. It reminded him of something his cousin would do. But maybe it would be warm, and he's have a change to dry off a bit before they kicked him out.

He took a few hesitant steps forward, until the light came more into view, and realized it was a gas station. A gas station? He realized that he had walked a lot further than he had thought, and was now out of the maze of comfy neighborhoods with their sleeping occupants. He was on the outskirts of some bigger town or city. He cursed himself for his lack of knowledge, but it really wasn't his fault that his relatives had only taken him out of the house maybe three times in his entire life. Of course, school doesn't count, but that was right down the street. He again wondered why he had left so abruptly without being prepared, and what his uncle would do to him if he went crawling back.

He bit his lip until he tasted the familiar irony taste of blood. It was instinct to always think about punishments from Uncle Vernon, even when the man could never reach him. Maybe it was a good thing, the boy thought. It would keep him from doing anything extremely foolish. His mind went back to school, where there had been a phrase going around. What would Jesus do? People had even worn bracelets with WWJD stitched or carved into it. Maybe he should make a bracelet with WWUVD on it. What would Uncle Vernon do? He giggled at the thought, and then promptly choked on a combination of his blood and rain blowing back into his throat.

His mind went back to the gas station as he got a little closer. It was a neon 'Miller Light' sign he had been seeing. There was nobody at the pumps, and through the glass windows, the boy could see a single man sitting behind the counter thumbing idly through a magazine. He reached the door,but he hesitated. What if he was immediately kicked out? What if by now, he looked bad enough to call the police? He looked down at himself.

Shirt and pants five times to big, covered in holes, and faded until they were colorless. His sneakers were a yellowish color covered in gray smudges, and duck taped so the soles would stop flapping. And his shaggy hair, matted down by rain didn't help any. Neither did that damn scar on his face. That would probably be the first thing noticed by the man. He'd be seen as some sort of street urchin, which, he laughed, he probably was now.

He forced himself to turn away from the door, and wandered a little bit away, going around the building to the back. When a large metal object came into view, he nearly shouted in joy, although he knew feeling excited about seeing a dumpster probably wasn't a good thing. But a dumpster meant thrown away food, and maybe a place to sleep. After all, it couldn't be any worse than his cupboard. Maybe a bit smelly, but never worse.

He grabbed a crate that was next to the dumpster and dragged it over to the front of it, as silently as he could, even though the storm probably masked most of the sound. He stepped up, and threw open the lid, blinking away the water from his eyes so he could see properly.

Oh good lord! He slapped his hands over his mouth and nose to save himself from the wave of warm sour stink emanating from the dumpster. His stomach churned, and he turned away to take in a deep breath of fresh, albeit wet, air. He couldn't very well eat anything in that pit, could he?

He took another deep breath and forced himself to turn around to look inside. He spotted what looked to be about twenty gallons of milk, all spilled out of their designated gallons and onto the garbage beneath. The man in the store probably had an old picky women come up to him and complain about seeing expired milk, and when the man went to check (because if the woman hadn't have been there, he wouldn't have cared very much), he found all these. No doubt that there was some sort of food underneath the clumps of what used to be milk. Food ruined even more than they were before. All unedible.

The boy slammed the lid back shut, not entirely sure if he was crying or not, and unable to tell because of the rain slamming into his face. Now he had nothing to eat, and he sure as hell had no place to sleep. He went to the side of the dumpster and curled up in the corner, pulling his legs up to his chest. He didn't know what to do. He was starting to feel the cold seep into his bones, and he started to shiver. But maybe he deserved this. He did deserve this. He could accept that, because in his heart, he knew it was true. Maybe not true for most of his life, but definitely after today, it was true. He felt the now familiar black creep up to where he could strongly feel it, and he threw his head back into the brick, a sob bursting out of him.

He slid down the wall until he was laying with his back on the ground, and slid himself halfway under the dumster, so his legs were sticking out. A part of him knew it was ridiculous, and someone could easily spot him, but he just wanted to sleep. Tomorrow he could think about what he was going to do. Tomorrow would be better.

His mind kept going back to the kitchen he had escaped from, and he kept trying to shove it away. Thoughts of the kitchen were part of the blackness. His Aunt going out grocery shopping was part of the blackness. His cousin being at a friends house was part of the blackness. He shoved it to the very back of his mind, and closed his eyes.

Harry found himself waking up to a strange sound.

_Scrape. Scrape. Scrape._

He body tensed without him wanting it to, and he tried to hold himself completely still. He didn't want to open his eyes, but he had always been the sort of boy to keep them open, if only to see exactly _how _he was about to die. Taking his covers and throwing them over his head in an effort to block out reality had never occurred to him.

Reminding himself that this was true, he forced his eyelids open, and was startled to see that he was back in his cupboard underneath the stairs. He could feel the roughness of the cot beneath him, he could breath the stale air, and he could definitely hear a scraping sound coming from outside the tiny door.

He reached a hand forward to open it automatically, but then forced himself to stop, knowing that it wasn't a very smart move of his to make. What if it was his Aunt? His Cousin? Or even worse, his Uncle. They could be just walking past to get a drink of water from the kitchen. If he were to open the door, and they were to see it, it would give them every reason to punish him. More reason than they usually needed.

He was completely silent for a few minutes, just to make sure, and the scraping sound didn't stop. In fact, it didn't even sound like it was coming from directly outside his cupboard. It sounded more like it was coming from his living room. It was continuous, repetitive, like someone a branch scraping against a bedroom window at night, although Harry hand never personally experienced that particular horror, having no window in his cupboard.

Before he could lose his nerve, he did a quick count to three in his head and threw open the cupboard door, grabbing at the knob before it could slam into anything and _really _wake his relatives up. There was nothing outside the door except the darkened wall of the the hallway, and he awkwardly climbed out, an unsettled feeling in his stomach.

He wasn't really scared of the dark, as he practically lived in it, so he couldn't pinpoint the source of his clenching stomach, almost like fear. Something was off. Something was really off, and while he wanted to go back to his cupboard and hide, he didn't. It was then he realized that his cupboard door should have been locked like it usually was when he was in there.

Now he felt a little bit of fear, could identify it, at least, and he was annoyed to notice that his legs were turning into the consistency of jelly, and he was starting to feel a bit faint. His left hand reached up and touched the wall of the hallway as he continued to walk on, like a quiet support. He reached the living room.

I was almost exactly as he remembered it being. Same couch with the floral sheet settled over, because god forbid if someone were to drop a crumb, same telly, bigger than the Dursleys really needed, same flowery curtains. But on the floor, covering the carpet like an abstract rug, Harry could make out squares of paper, and he knew them to be the letters addressed to _him _that had flown down through the fireplace like nobody's business. He remembered the look in his Uncle's eyes as he was grabbed roughly by an arm and guided to his cupboard. It was a look that promised more to come.

He forced himself to get out of the living room without picking up any of the letters. He didn't care. He really just didn't. Not anymore. He made his way into the kitchen, and somewhere deep inside him knew that this was his destination all along.

Now that feeling in his stomach had turned into horror. Pure terror. The kitchen was an evil place. On the tiled floor was an enormous puddle of blood, and Harry put a hand to his stomach in memory of the day his Aunt had thrown a knife at him, telling him to get breakfast started, but she had underestimated the strength of the throw. That day, there had been almost this much blood on the ground. His Aunt had actually taken him to the doctor then, claiming that him and his cousin had been playing 'ninja's' and had somehow gotten into the cutlery. Oh, how he an gotten a lecture out of that.

He looked up off the floor, and saw something strange on the table. There was a rather large fish tank, just sitting there, like it had always been sitting on the table like that, and nobody had noticed. He walked towards it, stepping around the blood and forcing it from his mind. He saw that there were fish swimming around in the tank. Goldfish. He put a face up to the glass and watched them. He saw a fish swimming around awkwardly, fatter than the rest. It was pregnant. Another had a black stripe down it's side. Another had a black splotch over one of it's eyes. Harry liked the fat one best. It looked funny when it tried to swim.

His eyes were focused on the fish, when he saw movement beyond the glass of the tank, and his eyes instead focused _through _the fish. Any curiosity he was feeling ran away like he desperately wanted to, and feelings of terror increased tenfold. Instead of his own face reflecting back at him, it was the face of a monster.

Harry remained perfectly still, just staring, his heart beating so hard he could feel his head pulsing. The face was black and gray, and looked as if someone had just taken hunks of flesh and shoved them together to form a face, and then taking a knife and slashing a hole for the mouth and eyes. He could see teeth through the lipless mouth, and they were sharp, jagged, white. Was this was the darkness had turned him into?

The hideous face stared back at him. Then, as Harry stared into it's eyes, they shifted, turning to look at one of the fish. Harry opened his mouth to let out a shriek, leaping backwards off the table as he did so, but the noise got caught in his throat, and the monster on the other side of the glass moved around it at an eerie speed and grabbed at his arm before he could fall completely off the table. It felt cold, and grimy, and it yanked him back up and shoved him towards the fish tank.

It put it's face to his ear, and Harry couldn't hold back a shudder. He felt himself break out into a cold sweat. "Look," the think whispered, it's voice like gravel.

Harry didn't want to look, but then the blackness was in his mind, the blackness he had though he successfully shoved aside, was back, and it was taking over. "No!" he found the courage to yell, but it didn't do any good, because now all he could feel was the blackness, and the grimy hand on his arm. And he looked.

He looked at the fish in the tank, and it was like he was looking through someone else's eyes. It was the black that was looking, and Harry was shoved aside instead, and he sat at the back of his mind, screaming at the inability to control his movements. His hand reached out slowly and carefully, and Harry watched it with horror that only grew the farther it went. His hand went into the water of the tank, and he could feel the coolness of it against his skin.

"Please, sto..." He stopped, and another voice came out of his mouth instead. "This is power." He whispered it. No, it wasn't another voice. It was his own, but he knew it was the monster speaking from him, and the minute it did so, Harry felt his terror swept away, and he was left staring at his hand in the water.

He was calm now, and watching. Waiting. He held his hand perfectly still, until the fish swimming around it grew used enough to it to swim a little bit closer. As soon as one dared to swim up near his palm, his palm closed tightly around it. His arm brought it up out of the water, and he stared at the fish, at it's gasping mouth, as it jerked in his hand. It was the fat fish. He watched as he held it above the water, unable to breath.

"This is power," he whispered again, in the voice that didn't come from him.

He felt nothing. No horror, no fear, and no sadness, as his hand slowly closed tightly around the fish. He watched as the tiny round mouth went open and stayed open, as the eyes popped out of it's head, and as it's entrails popped out of it's stomach and dripped down his hand.

The black in his mind started to retreat, and he began to take over his own body once again. He was left trembling. He could feel the cold of the remains of the fish on his hand, and bile rose in his throat.

"This is power," Harry said once more. This time, it was his own voice.

He heard the scraping sound again, and he was once again laying down. No, he thought. Not again. I can't do that again.

He was cold, and hungry, and his hands were numb. He felt something touch his foot, and he jerked up in an attempt to get away from the monster that wouldn't leave him alone, but he was met with a blinding pain as his head hit something hard and unforgiving. The dumpster.

He lay still for a moment, blinking away the stars that appeared before his eyes, as he gained his bearings. He was still underneath the dumpster. That's right. The dumpster behind the gas station. There was no monster. It only existed in his dreams. But he ignored that last thought as he felt another touch on his foot. He kicked, and there was a responding grunt. The boy couldn't help it. He screamed.

He rolled from underneath the dumpster as quickly as he could, and he could see a hunched figure where his feet had been. He got on his feet, and the figure tried to follow, stumbling and lurching, only convincing the boy more that it was the monster all along. He took off running.

He ran and ran and ran, and he didn't know where he was going to go. It was a painful reminder of the way he felt yesterday, before he ended up underneath the dumpster. He knew that the figure by his feet had probably been a homeless man, but the boy refused to acknowledge the fact. He needed to get away. Away from houses, from neighborhoods. Away from people.

It was drizzling now, still unpleasant, but a great deal better than it had been the night before. As a matter of fact, it was still slightly dark, being so early in the morning. He looked around, and realized he was in a shabby sort of neighborhood now. No, not really a neighborhood. It felt like an unfriendly, shabby sort of place. Shops were on either side of the street, and everything was worn down and grey looking. It was a dreary place.

As he wandered, he wondered about the dream he had. It was scary, but was it only a nightmare? Or something more. He sincerely hoped not. But the black he had felt in the dream was familiar. And besides, only in his imagination and dreams did he allow himself to call himself Harry. In reality, he was 'boy' or 'freak'. Calling himself something else, even in his own head, was dangerous.

In front of the boy, there was a small shop with a sign bearing the picture of a boat on it. A marina, maybe? He hadn't realized he had gone that far in the short time he had escaped his relatives home. He snuck a little closer, and as he reached the back of the building, he had a tingling feeling. He suddenly knew that he needed to get on a boat and get as far away from this place as possible. But how?

In the back of the marina, there was row after row of kayaks, canoes, and even jet ski's. He wandered towards a group of smaller looking canoes. He had never really been in one before, but it couldn't possibly be that hard. All you had to do was row. He sincerely hoped the boats would be easy to get at, preferably not locked up, and he felt another tingly feeling and the hairs rose on the back of his neck.

He reached a dark green canoe that looked as if it was meant for one, and frowned when he saw that there was indeed a chain wrapped around it, with a lock, but the lock itself wasn't closed properly, therefore ineffective. He would have pondered at his luck, but he knew he didn't have very much time. The sun would be coming up soon.

With painful, awkward steps, he lugged the small canoe into the water, careful to not jar his wrist. His entire body ached, and he just wanted to lay down to sleep. But he couldn't afford that luxury yet. He needed to get away first. When he got into the canoe, and looked down at his feet to pick up the paddle, he gasped. His shoes were gone!

He wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Obviously, this proved that the figure was indeed a homeless man just trying to find more comfort for himself, and it shoved away all lingering doubts that the boy had. It was like a weight had lifted off his chest. However, it still left him without shoes.

He ignored it. He had no proper clothing, no food, no friends, no family. What was no shoes as well? Just another thing to add to the list. He grabbed the paddle and started to row, hoping like hell he'd find a good place to sleep.

**So what did you think? Please tell me, because I'm willing to fix what you think is wrong with it if it doesn't mess with the entire plot of my story. **

**Let me know what you think about my writing style, tell me any idea's you may have that you want me to use, etc. **


	2. Life in the Hut

The Forbidden Life- Chapter 2

By DarknessMatters

**Well, I only got one review, which says a lot about my writing, I guess. But thank you! I really appreciate that you took the time to leave one. I hope this chapter is more interesting than the first. The story is just getting started!**

The water outside seemed to be roaring with rage, and wave after wave crashed into the jagged rocks outside, and the boy cried out and buried his head into the moth eaten sofa, sneezing as he did so. The storm had shown no sign of letting up. Almost immediately after he had landed on this tiny island, his arms exhausted, his wrist swollen, the rain, which had been a slight drizzle during his journey, had started up again with abandon. In fact, he had barely made it into the wooden hut, the only thing that seemed to fit on the island, before the first boom of thunder had sounded.

In a way, he supposed, the rain had led him to this hut. But that was ridiculous, so he didn't ponder on the thought.

When he had nearly fallen through the doors, he had spotted the sofa he was on now, and that was that. His exhaustion overcame his fear and anxiety, and he had collapsed on top of it, uncaring of the parasites that might have been living in the thing. He had grown up in the cupboard, of course, where one saw spiders crawling about nearly every day. Whats another little bug or two? And dust? He laughed in the face of dust!

He had to smother a small giggle in the sofa, but it was cut off by another boom outside. The boy was still half asleep, so maybe that was why the storm was getting to him. When he had been walking in it on his way out of his relatives house, he wasn't scared at all. But then again, he wasn't really himself, either.

At the thought of the blackness he shuddered. He felt a quick urge to search through his mind to see if he could feel it's presence still, but he found he didn't have to. It was there. He didn't need to feel it now. He just knew.

There was an awful crunching noise. For a moment, the boy... no, _Harry, _thought the roof was about to cave in on him. In a peculiar second, he realized that he wouldn't really care. It was a sad thought, but at least at the end of his life, he would have been Harry, and not boy or freak. He would have been alone, not with people he wanted nothing to do with. He would have been free.

Now that he was away from the Dursleys, he was going to be Harry again. Now, he realized, he didn't have to hide from himself anymore, and didn't have to worry about any slip ups. He smiled at the thought, his heart a bit lifted, and then his mind went back to the noise he had just heard.

If there was no change in the hut, then what else would... he froze. The canoe! He leapt of the couch, one of his feet getting stuck underneath a cushion, and fell hard to the ground. He landed on his bad wrist, and gasped. Holding it to his chest, he walked unsteadily to the door, his face white.

After a moment of standing there wondering if it was really such a smart idea to walk outside in a storm like this, he grit his teeth and urged himself forward. The canoe was important. He couldn't afford to be a coward about it. He flung open the door.

He cried out as a spray of stinging water hit his skin. The rain felt like needles, and the wind was blowing with such force that the rain was going nearly horizontally. Harry held a hand up to shield his eyes, and held onto the frame of the door to hold himself there in one spot, instead of being blown back into the small hut. He could see billowing black clouds, and the water was in turmoil. If he were to wander in this sort of storm, he would never make it back in one piece.

He needed to get out of the hut, so he got down on his hands and knees and started crawling. There was no path right out of the door, it was only sharp rocks that led downward in a slope straight into the water. He lowered himself onto his stomach so if he were to be knocked over, he'd tumble into a rock instead of over it into the water. Everything in his vision was a mixure of gray and black. It was so dark, and it was hard to see. Rocks and sea and sky. Behind him, even the hut was gray.

He made his way slowly closer to the water. Inching along the rocks, using the large ones for support against the wind, which was whistling in his ears fiercely, giving him a headache. He didn't know how his glasses were staying on his face, but he settled for it being another thing that made him a freak. He finally made it to where the water met the island, and looked over a boulder, behind it being where he had left the canoe. He wondered if he had tied the canoe up. He probably hadn't. He wouldn't have known how, and he was too tired.

He didn't have to wonder. Behind the boulder there were three large pieces of wood, slamming into the rocks again and again. Every once in awhile, when the largest of the pieces hit the rocks just right, it scraped against it in the same sound he had heard inside the hut. When Harry looked a bit more closely, he could see that the pieces of wood were painted green. With a tightening feeling in his gut, he crawled back towards the doorway, making it and with all his weight, shutting the door against the storm.

He lay there with his head against the door, gasping, not really tired, but feeling some sort of strange emotion that was taking the breath away from him. Yes, he felt fear. Of course he did. He was now stranded on a fucking rock in the middle of the sea. But he examined the fear more closely, and was somewhat startled to find that along with being scared, he was incredibly angry. This was the Dursleys fault! If they had treated him like a decent human being, he wouldn't be in this mess. If his Uncle Vernon hadn't taken that extra step...

His vision was starting to blacken, and for a moment, he thought he was going to faint. But when he didn't, the cold ball of fear in his stomach told him that the blackness was coming back. He gasped and opened his eyes. He could see the door, and he studied the grain of the wood, trying to calm himself down, but all he could think about was his Uncle Vernon. His vision grew blacker. He saw something shift from the corner of his eye.

He whipped his head around. There was nothing there. Another shift, and he turned his head again. This time, he caught a glimpe of something small, something black, and it crawled into a shadow and disappeared. A strangled groan came out of Harry's mouth. He had seen these creatures back on Privet Drive, before he had...

He clenched his eyes tightly shut, willing all emotion to go away. It took him awhile, but he kept his eyes closed, not wanting to see the creatures. He didn't want them the come closer. He didn't want them to touch him. He didn't know how he knew, but if he let the creatures touch him, something would happen. Something terrible. When most of the emotions whirling around in his mind were shoved to the very back of his mind, and he could think clearly, he opened his eyes. He would forget the creatures.

He lay there panting, looking around pitifully, thinking that if he were stuck somewhere for an indefinite period of time, he wouldn't want it to be this place. On the bookshelves, old tombs sat there, so old that the titles had been worn away, covered in layer upon layer of dust. The hardwood floor was stained and rotted, the couch ready to be put in the trash, the fireplace looking cold and forlorn.

But it was his.

Harry stood up and squared his shoulders as much as a little boy could. All it needed was a little cleaning, that's all. He just needed to look at this like looking at a glass half full. If you got rid of the dust, scrubbed up a little, beat out some rugs, well... it would be his new home.

His stomach growled. Shit. He looked in the direction of the kitchen with a longing expression. He didn't have to live on much. That much was proven at the Dursleys. He could go without food for a few days without any _major_ consequences, besides being shaky, slightly lightheaded, and unable to do chores at his regular speed. But the thing is, it was still something he needed, although he sincerely doubted that he would find anything of sustenance here. He went to the kitchen anyways.

He found that it was just as dirty as the rest of the house. There was no kitchen table, but what looked like a small folding table was leaning up against the far wall, along with two rickety wooden chairs. On the right side of the room, against the wall, were grey marble counters, which Harry supposed would clean up rather nicely once he was finished with it. He marched over to the counters above the sink, which was built into one of the counters.

Empty. Of course. His stomach growled again. Why shouldn't it be empty? It looked as if nobody had lived hear for centuries. But there had to be something, and the fact lodged itself in his mind, giving him hope he knew was bad for him. Something, like a can, or a box of noodles. Those things could last for _ages. _

There was a pantry on the left side of the room, and he headed towards that, his hands shaking, like an asthmatic reaching for an inhaler, hoping more than anything that it would work this time. Nothing. In a desperate fit, he threw himself through the rest of the room, flinging every cupboard open. The ones on top of the counters, the pantry, the shelves beneath the counters, until there was nothing left to open, and Harry let himself slide down to the floor inside the pantry.

With no way to get back to the mainland, he was stuck here, with no food. Despite leaving the Dursley's harsh care, he was still going to end up starving to death. He stared at the shelf that was level with his head, trying to will food onto it, but when it didn't work, of course it wouldn't work, he buried his hands in his arms, trying to hold back a sob. His tried not to think about food, but the more he tried to do that, the more he thought about it. He thought about fried eggs, about grilled chicken, about lasagna. His stomach wouldn't stop growling now. At the Dursleys, he always had something else to think about, like the next chore, the next punishment...but now he was alone with his thoughts.

What had he expected to find, anyways? A fucking can of peaches? He lifted his head, and jumped with shock, his head hitting the shelf painfully behind him. There in front of him, on the shelf he had just been staring at, was a single can. Harry hesitantly reached forward, and turned to can over. It was a can of peaches. He felt a shiver run throughout the body. Despite the feeling of for foreboding, he grabbed it off the shelf, and ran to the drawer he had seen silverware in. After ransacking it, he found what he was looking for. A can opener.

It was the best meal Harry had ever eaten in his life. Juice was dripping off his chin, onto his shirt, and he frowned, looking down at him in disgust. He wondered what other offerings the house had to give him. He stood up, put the empty can on the counter, and started walking back towards the living room. There had been a staircase he had seen earlier, and now, he supposed, was the time to do some further exploring.

Harry had grown used to the wind. It still slammed into the side of the hut, making it groan, and giving him pauses every now and then to look at the ceiling in horror, but the hut was still standing. It was warm too, he realized, although he saw no vents for the heat to come out of. He was sitting of the sofa, now throughly beaten, with his feet curled up underneath him, a book in his lap. It was titled _101 Household Spells. _Apparently, magic did, in fact, exist.

Of course, Harry didn't just pick up the book and think 'oh, spells, huh? That must be magic'. It had been a number of things that had happened to him that day.

When he had gone upstairs to find something for him to wear, hoping secretly that there was a wardrobe where he could think of what he wanted and it would just appear, he had found a tiny dresser with three pairs of dark blue jeans on the bottom, and black long sleeve shirts on the top drawer. He guessed that the previous occupant was not a very colorful person. Although there was no special wardrobe, the pants _did _shrink to his size, throughly giving him a heart attack. The shirt was big, but he just rolled up his sleeves and called it a good day.

When he had carelessly tossed his own jeans on the floor, his letter he had taken from underneath his cot came flying out of his pocket. Curious, he bent over to pick it up. He didn't know why he bothered saving it out of all the things he could have brought with him, including food. Now that he had enough time, he supposed it couldn't hurt to see what it was.

But it did hurt. It hurt a lot. He opened the envelope and took out a few sheets of heavy paper that felt rough against his fingers, unfolded it, and read the first page. Five minutes later, he had crumpled the letter in his hands, feeling incredibly annoyed. Dudley would have probably laughing his ass of if he could see Harry's face now. Of course, he didn't think that Dudley was smart enough to pull off such a trick, seeing how they came flying out of the fireplace like that, and the way the very first letter had arrived being held by an owl, but Dudley had friends. He whipped the letter in the corner.

Well, Dudley should have tried the trick a few years ago, Harry thought darkly. He would have jumped at the chance to finally get away from the Dursleys. He would have been ecstatic. He would have been hopeful, and that was never a good thing for Harry to experience. Hope was dangerous. And while it didn't give him false hope as it once would have, it still hurt. Because he knew he would never get away from the Dursleys, even on this rock. There was a shift out of the corner of his eye, and he froze, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths to control the emotions he was feeling. When he opened them again, his eyes were blank, and nothing else moved.

And another incident was when he had been attempting to clean the house. He had found a closet with a mop and bucket, several sprays, old rags, and other cleaning supplies. He had filled the bucket with water from the sink, more surprise that he actually had running water than he had been when the can of peaches appeared before him, and dragged it out into the living room. But when he had tried moping the floor, it wasn't making much of a difference besides getting the floor wet. Then he remembered that he should have put some sort of cleaner in the bucket. If nothing else, it would make the place smell a bit nicer.

So he had gone back to the closet and searched, finding a bottle with the label _Martha's Magical Moping Solution._ He had tried it, and to his utter shock, the minute his mop ran across the floor, it was left sparkling and polished, looking brand new. It didn't matter if the floor was rotting away, or deeply gouged, it fixed it. It made him think back on the letter, but he refused to believe the letter over one incident. Well, actually, if he were honest with himself, quite a few incidents. The running water, the warmth even though it was still storming outside, the fact that the hut was still standing.

And now there was this book. He decided that he still didn't believe in any sort of magical school, because that would be foolish and gullable of him, so he decided that this house belonged to some weirdo who belonged to a satanic cult. Maybe he, and it was a he, because the clothes were for a grown male, was Wiccan, or something like that. After all, there were spell books, it was dark and creepy, away from prying eyes, and there was a basement door Harry hadn't explored yet, because every time he walked past it, he thought of something else to do. He thought about it now, and was able to think about opening it, but every time he tried, he got distracted. After a few dozen tries, he had given up and just wondered.

He curled up on the couch in a tighter ball, holding the dusty tomb and getting distracted in it's debts again. It was very interesting, and he wanted to finish it, because he was looking forward to reading _Basic Potion Ingredients and Their Reactions._

It was his Birthday tomorrow. Harry didn't know how he knew that, but somewhere deep in his heart he knew. He had already lost track of the days he had been here. He didn't know what day he left, or even what day of the week it was now. He didn't even know what month it was. That is, until he had that nagging feeling that he was about to turn a year older tomorrow.

The time he had been in the hut was a blend of cleaning, new discoveries, and reading. He couldn't say he was getting bored, and he was happy about that, because this was all he had. The books he had read definitely enforced his thoughts about the previous occupant being a weirdo. A dangerous weirdo. At first, Harry had been excited reading about spells, and potions, and even charms. Most of them looked useful, and a part of Harry wished they really existed so he could put them to good use. But then the books had gotten a bit darker, making him nervous. It didn't keep him from reading the tombs, but made him a bit more hesitant.

Books on rituals using your friends blood. Using your enemies blood. Books explaining theories to bring people back to life. Books with lists of incredibly painful spells you could cast at someone who irritates you. There were spells that melted away your skin, made your eyes explode, ruptured your organs, etc.

It was dark outside. The storm had been raging the entire time he had been here, and not for the first time, Harry wondered if the storm was just another spell to keep people away from the rock. But, just like every other time he had thought it, he laughed at himself for believing it.

He was sitting on the floor in front of the couch now. Over the time he had been here, the couch had been where he had spent most of it. Whether from reading, sleeping, or just sitting there staring off into space like he was doing now. There was a bed upstairs, in the same room where he had found his clothes, but he hadn't been able to find any sheets and the mattress was so saggy and stained that he had taken one glance at it and decided it wasn't worth it.

He was wondering about the previous occupant of the house. Someone who worshiped Satan. He was sure of it. Otherwise, why all the books on torturing people? He remembered walking to school one day, and passing the high school, he had seen this boy dressed the the strangest clothing. His pants were black and baggy, with silver chains hanging out of the pockets, he wore big clumpy boots with silver studs, the shirt was black as well, torn and dirty, and the boy had more piercing than he could count. His hair had also been dyed black and his eyes were darkened with some sort of makeup. At the time, Harry had thought it was incredibly intimidating, but he didn't think anything more than that.

That had been when he was still a small boy, and still eager to please. After living with the Dursley's awhile longer, Harry soon learned that people who dressed like that were "No good hoodlums who worshiped the devil". He could imagine someone like that, only older, living in the house. He imagined the sort of life the man had lived.

_BOOM!_

The noise had sounded somewhere outside, and Harry spared a glance towards the door. Loud noises rarely moved him anymore, not with the storm constantly raging outside. He wondered if his canoe would have lasted even if he had tied it up properly. He glanced back down at his book.

_BOOM!_

He put the tomb down, and this time stared at the door. The sound was not thunder. He was sure of it. Thunder had an echo, and was a deeper sort of sound, like the entire world was exploding. This was something else.

Still, he wasn't afraid. He was on an island surrounded by water. And the water was so violent that no boat could have made it.

_BOOM! *crack*_

The crack was the door. Harry sat there, frozen where he was, staring at the door with wide eyes. This was it, he though, the hut is finally collapsing. However, something told him that it was not. After all, it was just the door making the sounds, not the structure of the house.

The door started to swing open, and with his heart freezing in his chest, he could only watch as a gigantic hulking figure filled the doorway.

**Finit! Less than a week, too! Please leave a review, it spurs on my writing.**


	3. The Kidnapping

Forbidden Chaos Chapter 3

By DarknessMatters

**Alright, I got five more reviews, which is alright. Thank you to those who bothered. It really does make a difference.**

**Hagrids dialogue is freaking impossible! I'm sorry if I butchered it, but I did the best I could. **

Harry sat there, petrified, barely able to breathe, and stared with widened eyes at the large... _thing _that stood at his doorway. It took the shape of a man, that Harry was positive about, but he had never seen a man as large as this one. The head of the figure hit the seven foot high doorway. If Harry stood with his hand reached up above his head and he jumped, he still wouldn't be able to touch that frame.

The the figure took a step forward, and impossibly, Harry felt his eyes widening even more when he realized that the figure had been ducking to get past the frame. He watched at the figure stood up to it's full hight, with it's head nearly hitting the rather high ceiling of the hut. Oh god, Harry though. The minute I get away from the Dursleys, and I get murdered by some freaky think that had no right to exist in their minds. How fucking ironic.

At the thought of his relatives, his mind automatically went to his Aunt's reaction at seeing this man. He wanted to laugh, but was still a bit too petrified. She'd probably just pass out. Wouldn't be very entertaining at all.

When the man walked into the glow of the lamp Harry had set up next to the couch, Harry saw that the thing was, indeed, a man, albeit a rather humongous one. Although the storm was still trying it's worst to do as much damage as humanly possible, Harry couldn't see it, although the door was wide open behind the man. That's how big he was. Taller than the already tall doorframe, and just as wide. Harry could hear the storm though. With the man standing there looking down at him, and the rain slamming into the side of the hut and the sound of thunder echoing in the small space with the door open, the man was pretty damn intimidating.

He stared at Harry with small, beady black eyes, with a wild tangle of black hair that took over maybe eighty percent of his face. He wore an overlarge (although maybe not for him) moleskin coat covered with more pockets than Harry cared to count. In his left hand, a hand that was probably the size of the lid on a garbage can, he carried a small pink umbrella. Because of the umbrella, Harry was thrown off from his initial reaction of trying to get away from the man that just broke into his house. Or so he told himself.

"'appy Birthday, 'arry!" The voice was deep and rumbled like the coming of an avalanche. The thought didn't make Harry feel better.

He wanted to open his mouth and ask how the man knew it was his birthday. Actually, he wanted to ask who, or what, the man was. Instead, he opened his mouth, and hesitated, wondering if was the brightest idea to converse with this man, only prolonging whatever was about to happen. In his hesitation, the man raised his umbrella.

"It's right cold in here 'arry, you ought to have yourself a fire."

Before Harry could come up with something that went along the lines of 'Of course it's cold, dumbass, you broke the door", the giant muttered something that Harry didn't quite catch and a streak of orange light flew out from the end of the umbrella and hit the fireplace, where it immediately went up in flames.

Finally, Harry was able to move, and he leapt up, nearly falling back down because he had been in the same position for so long, and ran for the stairs leading up the the bedroom. If he had been thinking clearly, he would have realized that running upstairs would only be trapping himself and it would probably make the gigantic man even more mad, but he didn't particularly care.

"'ARRY!" the man yelled after him, but Harry didn't turn to look.

He felt, as well as heard, thundering footsteps coming after him, and it reminded him strongly of 'Harry Hunting', a game his cousin had invented with his friends to see who could catch him first. Whoever one always got the first punch, while the others held his arms behind his back. If he had learned anything from the game, it was how to move fast, and how to anticipate how fast other people were. Because of the giant man's bulk, Harry predicted that he would take up distance quickly because of his height, but move slower than he could have because of his weight. So...nearly as fast as him. The thought wasn't pleasant, and Harry made it to the rickety staircase and sprinted up them, literally going forward and moving faster with his hands. Embarrassing, but if it made him move faster, than what the hell. By the time he made it to the top of the steps, the man had made it to the bottom of the staircase. Harry ran into one of the bedrooms, and threw himself underneath one of the old beds. He couldn't think straight, and he could only lay there, shivering with something that was not the cold, folding his arms around himself tightly, trying to hold as still as he possibly could. Please don't find me, he though. Please.

He heard the first footstep fall on the stairs. The man was moving slowly now, probably because the man had realized that he had cornered Harry, and there was nowhere for him to go. Then the second footstep.

Harry closed his eyes in anticipation of the third, but instead of the thump that accompanied the previous two, he heard a large crack, and a crumbling sound. The man shouted in pain, but there were to more footsteps.

"'ARRY!"

Nope, not moving. He was not budging. The staircase had probably collapsed under the weight of the man, and Harry was incredibly grateful. He hadn't cleaned the stairs yet, only because he almost never went upstairs, so the cleaner that magically fixed the hardwood floors downstairs had not fixed the staircase. It was still old and rotted. Thank you, he thought.

But now what was he going to do? He was hiding underneath a bed, stuck upstairs, with a crazy man with a pink umbrella that had magical powers downstairs.

"'arry!" The man sounded calmer, but Harry didn't let that fool him. "I didn' mean to scare you! Come downstairs!"

Like hell! Maybe he could crawl out a window, and hope the wind didnt take him off the roof. Even if it did, it was surely better than whatever the man had in mind. He started to crawl out from under the bed. He stood up and brushed himself off.

Then something happened that he wasn't expecting. He _jerked. _It was a feeling that came from his stomach, a fierce tugging sensation, and it sent him to the floor. What the...? Then he was sliding across the floor towards the doorway.

"NO!" he screamed. He spun around on his stomach, still sliding, and tried to grab onto anything he could find. The bedpost, which nearly tore his arms out of their sockets. The rug, which slipped easily out of his hand. Then the hardwood floor, which just tore up his fingernails. He swept past the doorframe, grabbing at it and wrenching his arms again

"Let go of me!" Harry couldn't breath. He didn't know what was going on. One second he was safe, and the next... "God damn it! Stop it!"

He got closer and closer to the stairs, and when he got to them, his body was flung over the first step. He half tumbled, and was half dragged down the staircase and he could see the man now. He was standing in the middle of the living room by the couch with his pink umbrella raised, and it was aimed at Harry.

He was dragged across the hole the man had made in the stairs, and his ankle promptly got caught in it as he tried to stop himself any way he could. There was a popping sound, and a terrible pain, and Harry was dragged on. He stopped when he was in front of the man, and he lay there, unable to think of anything to do but gasp painfully and stare up at the man.

"'arry, I'm so sorry 'bout that. I need to talk to you, and it's urgent. 'fessor Dumbledore is waiting on this."

Professor Dumbledore? Wait. Harry remembered that name. It was familiar. His mind spun in circles, still unable to grasp what had just happened to him. Professor Dumbledore...the letter!

"The school?" he asked dumbly. It was the only think his mind could think of to say.

The man above him puffed out his chest in pride. Harry's fear was starting to wither. He began to feel anger replace it. The man had broken down his door, stomped into his hut, chased him up the stairs, and dragged him back down, breaking his ankle in the process! Darkness began to creep into his vision and he shook his head to clear it. No, not now. Now was not the time.

"Yea, the school," said Hagrid, as if just remembering. "I'm to bring you to the school. Somethin's 'appened with your relatives."

"My relatives?"

"Oops, i shouldn' a said that. Just ignore that, alright 'arry? The 'fessor will explain everything."

"I'm not attending this school." Harry put as much disgust and hatred into the sentence as he could.

A silence fell throughout the hut, and the sentence seemed to echo in the tiny living room, bouncing off the walls, hitting the pair again and again so it was impossible to ignore. Harry heard a dripping in the corner, rain leaking from a small hole in the roof. He had put a bucket there earlier. The waves crashing into the rocks outside, the rain slamming into the side of the hut, the wind shrieking past the windows.

Finally, the giant man spoke. "What?"

Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He kept his face calm and polite. He had gotten a lot of practice at the Dursleys. "I'm not going to Hogwarts. I read the letter, I thought about it, and I don't want to go."

The poor man looked flabbergasted. "Nobody says no to going to 'ogwarts!"

"Yes, well, i'm saying no. So you can leave. And you can fix that door on your way out as well."

"Why would you say no?"

That gave Harry a pause for a moment. Why _was _he saying no? The time he had been here, he used magical products, read magical books, ate food that magically appeared. Why didn't he want to go to a school and learn how to do that himself?

Then Harry remembered an incident in grammar school, when he had gotten his teacher mad. He hadn't known an answer to a question, and the teacher had made fun of him. He had glared at the teacher, wishing that the man felt as humiliated as he felt, and the hair on his head had turned blue. Harry had been rather satisfied at the time, but it wasn't worth the beating he took afterwards. And just because the man had humiliated him, and made him seem lower than the class already thought him, wasn't Harry just stooping to his level by getting him back?

He remembered the storm outside, trapping everyone who ventured onto the island. He remembered the books on how to painfully curse another human being. He remembered the giant man breaking off his door with little regard to who lived in the hut. He remembered getting dragged down the stairs in a painful manner.

"Magic is power," he whispered.

"What was that, 'arry?"

He thought about the dream he had, with the letters scattered about the floor, with the monster whispering in his ear, making him kill something and feel nothing. He thought about the magic he apparently had, and the creatures always on the edge of his vision when he got angry. The blackness.

Magic was power.

He looked up at the giant man, who was now staring at him in confusion, as if he couldn't quite understand the boy laying on the ground before him. "Even if someone doesn't have magic, they can find power. And a lot of the time, they abuse it." He thought of his uncle. "With magic though, you just giving everyone a loaded gun and expecting them to treat it right. I bet there are a lot of magic people who have a lot of power and abuse it, aren't there?"

The man stared at Harry in confusion. "I dunno what your talkin' 'bout 'arry. I've never 'eard of a gun."

Harry had to fight to keep the polite look on his face. "I am not going." He drew out the sentence, as if speaking to a three year old.

Harry had to say he was surprised with himself. Rarely has he stood up for something he said or believed. He usually went along with whatever his uncle said. While he felt a slight fear now, and hesitated to speak his mind, he did so with certainty, sure that he was right in not participating in this school of magic.

The man burst into movement, and started pacing back and forth, muttering. "The great 'arry Potter not goin' to 'ogwarts," he was saying. "It just doesn't 'appen. 'is parents would be rollin' in their graves if they heard this."

The pacing continued in the same manner for a few minutes, and Harry watched warily. Then, as if suddenly thinking of something, the great man stopped, and glared down at Harry. The fear that had gone away as soon as the man had started acting like an idiot started to return, and Harry cursed himself for underestimating the man. After all, he had broken his ankle, and he still hadn't said anything about it.

"The death eaters got to you already, didn' they?"

It was Harry's turn to be confused. "What?"

"They must 'ave 'ad a part in what 'appened with you relatives. They must 'ave gotten you before you came 'ere. They probably put you 'ere, didn' they?"

"What?"

The man shook his head. "'fessor Dumbledore can fix this right up. Don' you worry, 'arry. We'll 'ave you good as new right away."

The man started checking his pockets, and Harry wondered if he was looking for another umbrella. But that was ridiculous, because one seemed to be doing the trick. Then the man found what he was looking for, and pulled out a... a sock? He held it down to Harry like a peace offering.

The only think Harry could think of to do was reach up and take it, but as soon as he touched it, he felt a jerk at his navel, similar to the feeling he had upstairs before he was dragged to the giant man, and the world started to spin around him.


End file.
